


Interlude XIX

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [160]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Acid Attack, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Heaven, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 06:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11480355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Mrs. God is Displeased - and Mr. Lucius Holmes has to track down Doctor Watson after Sherlock is the victim of a vicious attack.





	1. Chapter 1

Mrs. God stared at Her husband incredulously.

“But he's an archangel!” She said at last. God nodded.

“I know”, He said. “And I made it quite clear that having three archangels was going to be the rule from now on. Unfortunately Raphael got into a snit because all the angels are talking about Castiel.”

“So?”

“So, some of them are suggesting that perhaps we need a fourth archangel again, and the boy would be a good choice.”

“Why?” She wondered. “I mean, cute and adorable and all that, but he is not the most organized angel out there, is he? Remember the dinosaurs?”

“The point”, Her husband said, “is that Raphael felt threatened. Think about it, dear; if an angel can be promoted to archangel status, then theoretically, one could also be _demoted_ from it. So he entered the timeline as the Holmes brother he was matched to, and... um....”

Her eyes narrowed.

“What?” She said dangerously.

+~+~+

No-one could quite explain exactly how the scientists had missed a whole damn volcano popping up and erupting like that. Even if it was in Antarctica.


	2. Chapter 2

_[Begin narration by Mr. Lucius Holmes]_

When your nickname is that of the devil himself, you have a reputation to live up (or down) to. I am incredibly fortunate to have Alfie to come home to, a wonderful boy who can cope with my many moods. Especially working for someone as unscrupulous, villainous and flint-hearted as the British Government, which means that you quickly learn that thinking the worst about people may be bloody cynical, but it means that the only thing you have to suffer is other people's annoyance at your always being right.

It was my sister Anna who first alerted me to our detective brother's interest in the “Veiled Lodger” play, and told me that she had some suspicions that our elder brother, Ranulph, was involved in the attacks against it. Rafe has always been a bully and a coward, and that he would try to intimidate a bunch of actors had come as no surprise. And when his efforts were frustrated by Sherlock, I had some inkling that there might be trouble. 

Unfortunately, I just did not appreciate how much trouble.

On the fateful day, I received news of the attack by sheer good fortune. I had paid a call on Sherlock at his Baker Street home, only to be told that he had gone to the Turkish Baths down the road. Friday was not his usual day for so doing, but his landlady Mrs. Harvelle (a lady who owned a rifle and commanded respect) explained that he had been out the day before on a case somewhere, and had missed his usual day.

I was still talking to her when the telegram arrived. She read it, and her face darkened.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Someone has attacked your brother at the Baths”, she said, looking horrified. “One of those acid attacks. It is terrible!”

“He will want John”, I said at once (I had far too much respect for the landlady to know that she would be unaware of my brother's true relationship with the doctor, let alone that if she had disapproved of it, they would surely have been made aware). “Where is he?”

“He said that he had a patient out Enfield way”, she frowned. “But not one from the surgery, unfortunately.”

“His friend Sir Peter Greenwood lives not far from King's Cross Station, which has trains to Enfield”, I said. “I shall call on him, and he will surely know.”

+~+~+

I wired ahead to King's Cross for a special before proceeding rapidly to Sir Peter's house. The knight was out, but fortunately his good lady wife knew who the patient had to be. One of the original sponsors of the surgery where John still worked from time to time had recently moved there, otherwise he would never have taken somewhere so far away from the city. I was directed to Lady Brandleton at the oddly-named Trumpet House; in my haste I quite forgot myself, and kissed a startled Lady Greenwood before fleeing the house. 

My special was ready when I arrived at the station – I later had to go back and tip the station staff; I was so frantic with worry - and a swift journey to the station in the Middlesex town ensued, where I managed to obtain directions for the house. Typically I was just setting off in one cab when I caught sight of John drawing up to the station in a second. The cab-driver was evidently annoyed at my sudden change of mind, but I did not care, pursuing my quarry through the station and onto the platform. He looked most startled when I ran round in front of him.

“Your friend needs you”, he said. “Come!”

I hustled him along the island platform to where my special. I could see the exact moment when he put two and two together, and realized that my advent did not portend good news.

“This is a special”, I explained. “I hired it at King's Cross; I knew that you would be returning through the station, but I nearly missed you.”

“Why a special?” he asked anxiously. “What has happened to Sherlock?”

I took a deep breath. 

“He has been attacked”, I said. “I am afraid that our bully of a brother, Ranulph, did not take kindly to his defeat over that damn play.”

He went pale.

“How bad?” he asked anxiously.

“Ranulph employed someone to throw acid at him in that Turkish bath that he uses, near your house”, I said grimly. “I do not know how bad it is; the doctor treating him sent only cursory details to Baker Street.”

“I have to see him!” he said urgently. He nodded.

“I know”, he said. “But be prepared. For all his apparent lack of care about his appearance, he will not take this well.”

+~+~+

I did not appreciate the truth behind those words until we reached the hospital, and we learnt that Sherlock was refusing all visitors. John actually snarled at the doctor, who backed away from him in terror, before he pushed past him and into the room where Sherlock was sat in bed. I followed him in, rather more quietly.

“Really?” he said incredulously, hands on hips. “You think so little of me that I would be put off by _this?_ I have seen you in the morning, remember!”

My brother sighed, and turned fully towards us both. It was indeed bad; he was scarred from his neck all the way down to his feet. Only his face had been spared, and I knew that that must have been because he had to have been wearing one of those mud face-packs that he had mentioned a few weeks back that John had persuaded him to try. I supposed that one should thank Heaven for small mercies.

“Look at me, John”, he said sadly.

“You idiot!” his friend scoffed. “I love the heart inside the man, not the package it comes in. And if anyone feels the urge to say anything about the way you look, they had better be prepared to get hit bloody hard, man or woman! Look, the only reason I am not.... cuddling you right now is because it would hurt you.”

My brother managed a watery smile.

“You hate that word”, he pointed out.

“For you, I would do anything”, I said firmly. “Climb the highest mountain, swim the widest sea, and even.... cuddle. Because I love you.”

That set my brother off into an almost inhuman keening wail, and I could only hope that what flowed from his eyes were tears of happiness.

+~+~+

Sherlock's doctor (once he had been assured that his fellow medic was not going to hurt him) told us that what my brother needed most was time and lots of rest. That of course ruled out staying in London, where he would be constantly bothered by cases and, I suspected, our brother Bacchus. Although if he came round just now, John would surely shoot the pest. Perhaps....

No. Mother would be Upset. 

Well, probably.

“I can arrange for a secretary, who will see to it that all requests are deferred because he is on some high-level government investigation”, I said. “But he needs to be out of the city.”

“I thought.... Futility?” John said.

“That Essex island you once went to on a case?” I asked. “Did Sherlock not tell me that the fellow who called you in had to leave there last year, because of his health?”

“He did”, John said, “and he sold the place to the council. But he insisted that the rooms be maintained for one or both of us, if we ever wanted somewhere to go to for some peace and quiet. Sherlock was so happy there, that time with his knitting and no people bothering him all the time.”

“That seems an excellent idea”, I said. “I shall stay and watch him for a while, and you can go back to Baker Street and pack some bags. The doctor said that it will be six months before he heals, or at least as much as he is going to.”

“I would not care if he never heals”, John said firmly. “I love him whatever he looks like.”

And that, I thought as I left, is why I trust you with my baby brother. Otherwise I would have to kill you.

+~+~+

I wanted to visit Sherlock, to see how he was recovering, but I managed to hold back for a month. Besides, then I could bring him news of all the consequences of the attack. My father was furious with Ranulph who, typically, had actually boasted openly about being behind the attack. He was given a stark choice; the fellow could either accept half of his original inheritance on condition that he changed his name and stopped all association with the family, or Sir Charles would bring the police in on the matter. I was sure that Ranulph would never have expected such a development, and I later learnt that he had taken the money and moved to live a quiet life somewhere in the country. He was only fortunate that our dear mother was away at the funeral of a friend over in France. But she would be back. 

My vile brother had, wisely, moved out by this time, and I felt no scruples whatsoever about using my contacts in the government to find him. Tempted though I was to go round and knock seven bells out of the rat, I restrained myself and opted for something crueller; I 'accidentally' passed on his new address to Mother. It took four burly policemen to stop her. Fortunately Father paid for all their hospital treatments (and for repairs to the flat, if not to my brother). And it was just unfortunate that that newspaper reporter, having 'been accidentally passing', decided to pout the whole thing on the main social page of the "Times". What were the odds on that happening?

I went over to Futility exactly one month on from the attack, not forgetting the doctor's request to bring a large bag of the flavoured barley-sugar from Fortnum & Mason's that Sherlock liked (Lord alone knows why; the stuff smelt vile!). He had improved considerably according to the last message that John had sent from Mersea, and was coping better than I had expected with the peace and quiet on the island which I myself would have found unbearably tedious. John now expected nearly all his scars to heal except for a strange one on his shoulder that looked a little like a hand-print. He impressed me by saying that it represented the grip that Sherlock had on his heart, and that he hoped it would always be there to remind him of that. The sap!

It would probably have been better if I had left matters like that, but I wished to see my brother one last time on the island, and decided to pay a surprise visit just before they left the place in early December. Tom, the Mersea fisherman, took me out in his little boat, and as we neared the island, I could see two figures on the railing in front of the great light. Foolishly, I used my binoculars to get a better look.

 _Seriously?_ Doing it outside in these temperatures?

_[End narration by Mr. Lucius Holmes]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The station in this tale, Enfield (Great Northern), was one of two termini in the town, the other being Enfield Town on the Great Eastern Railway. In 1910 the G.N.R. line was extended to Hertford, and the old terminus was replaced by a through station on an adjoining site, called Enfield Chase.


End file.
